Trouble

by Michael Gilbert

  Three of them stood by the lorry. The fourth, a thick-set man who walked with a slight limp, advanced along the planking towards Rackham.

  “Well now,” he said pleasantly. “It’s the boys in blue. No, not the boys – just one little blue boy, right?”

  The other men had continued packing the boxes into the back of the lorry. They worked neatly and without hurry.

  “I told you to stop that,” said Rackham.

  “But are you in any position to give orders?” said the thick-set man. “That’s the point, isn’t it? And don’t pretend you’ve been sending for reinforcements. That toy radio of yours has been jammed for the last ten minutes, hasn’t it?”

  “Never mind about my radio. And never mind about who’s coming to help me. I’m here and I’m ordering you to stop handling that cargo.”

  “And if we don’t take a blind bit of notice—”

  “Then I shall have to take you in charge.”

  The others had suspended loading to listen to this dialogue and Rackham’s final effort produced a laugh.

  “What, all of us?” said one of them.

  “On your bike, copper.”

  Rackham slid the truncheon out of its loop. He had an idea that if he could knock out the thick-set man, who was clearly the leader, the others might give in. He had no time to test this theory. The thick-set man shot him. The .38 bullet hit him below his collar-bone on the right-hand side, broke two ribs and lodged under his shoulder blade. The impact knocked him off his feet.

  The man who had shot him took no further notice of him. “Sling that stuff in. Don’t fuck about with it.” There was a sharper edge to his voice. “We’ve got no fucking time to waste.”

  “Not a fucking moment,” agreed Captain Musgrave pleasantly.

  The four men swung round. It was impossible to say how it had happened, but there were now a lot of men there. Twenty at least, dressed in combat jackets without unit signs on them and carrying machine pistols in the easy way of men who knew how to use them.

  In the face of such a force, opposition was going to be not only useless, but dangerous.

  “On to the wharf all of you and sit down. That’s good boys. Quite comfortable? Then you can take off your girlfriends’ stockings.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. Three of the men looked at the fourth. Musgrave said, “You saw this man shoot the policeman, Duffy?”

  “Certainly did.”

  “Then it would be a fair exchange if you shot him in the ankle.”

  The masks came off in a hurry.

  “Well, I’m not surprised he was wearing one, are you Duffy?”

  “If I had a face like that I’d keep it under cover,” agreed Duffy.

  “Suppose we have a look at the fruit.”

  One of his men broke open a case and handed Musgrave a grapefruit. He dug into it with his clasp knife and felt inside for what he was sure he would find there. It was a thimble-sized plastic container, which he opened carefully. When he dipped in the tip of his little finger, it came out with a few grains of white powder on it. Musgrave tasted it and spat.

  “Not exactly what we were looking for,” he said, “but interesting all the same.”

  The man beside him said something and Musgrave swung round.

  “I think we’ve got visitors.”

  It was Michaelson at District, who had responded to the summons from Reynolds Road. He had turned out the two Immediate Response Units in their carriers, and had come with the leading one himself. They had turned off the highway and were approaching at break-neck speed down the single approach road. Sandwiched between them, in imminent fear of being overrun, was the panda car at last extracted by Detective Hind from a suspicious Transport Sergeant.

  The thick-set man, who went under the name of Roberts and whose real name was Rodzinsky, observed these further reinforcements without enthusiasm. Then he noticed something else.

  The strangers had vanished, so quickly and so quietly that it was hard to believe they had ever been there. His mind worked fast. There was little hope of escaping. The one road out was blocked and if they took to the open they would soon be hunted down by one or other lot of opponents. The nearest carrier was still a hundred yards away. If they worked quickly they might destroy the evidence.

  “Throw the stuff into the river,” he said.

  The other three men gaped at him.

  “And be bloody quick about it.”

  He jumped up, took one of the crates and slung it. He had misjudged the weight of the crate. It cleared the inner wharf, hit the outer one and split, spilling oranges over the planks.

  The others grasped, at last, what he meant, jumped up and seized a crate each, but they had reacted too slowly. Only half a dozen had been disposed of when the police were on top of them. The fight was brief. No one enjoyed himself more than Michaelson. In a matter of minutes the four men were sitting where they had been before, only now they were handcuffed.

  “First thing,” said Michaelson, tucking back his shirt which had been torn out of his trousers in the struggle, “is look after this poor chap. Who is he?”

  “Rackham, sir,” said Hind.

  “He did a good job. If he hadn’t held them up for a few minutes they’d have had all that stuff in the river. Get on the air and whistle up a doctor and an ambulance. Now let’s see what we’ve got.”

  16

  “It was a split-second decision,” said Colonel Every. “When Musgrave realised that the cargo was drugs, not explosives, and saw the police coming up at a gallop, he realised that the time had come to make himself scarce. Even if the men got away, they couldn’t take the stuff with them. And he knew how tricky the situation was.”

  “A split-second decision,” agreed Bearstead. “But unquestionably a correct one. And I’m glad it was Micky here who came to the rescue. He knows the form.”

  Michaelson, in whose office this discussion took place, said, “If you mean that I’m in a position to head off awkward questions, don’t worry. There’s someone much keener to do it than me. That’s friend Brace. You realise that the whole thing is a terrific scoop for him? The narcotics boys are over the moon. They haven’t finished weighing and counting yet, but it was a massive consignment and you needn’t think he’s going to allow any part of the credit to be diverted from his boys to mysterious civilians. Incidentally, he’s put Rackham in for a police medal.”

  “Well deserved,” said Every. “How is the boy?”

  “He had a rotten forty-eight hours after they got the bullet out. A lot of fever and the after-effects of shock. No one’s allowed to talk to him at the moment.”

  “And by the time they do talk to him,” said Every, “the whole thing will have faded into illusion.”

  Bearstead said, “Rodzinsky and his friends might talk, but no one’s going to pay much attention to any ghost stories they dream up. I think you’ve had a clear run, Colonel. In fact, what you might call a first-class dress-rehearsal. Even Brace has been converted. He was livid when he heard that the smugglers had succeeded in blocking his boy’s wireless set and he’s busy laying a land-line to each of his watching posts. So one way and another it came out rather well.”

  “The only thing is,” said Michaelson, “if the IRA hear about this scoop, might they postpone their own operation? It’d be awkward if they did, because the sort of arrangement we’ve set up can’t be kept up for long. I imagine you’ll have to call in your men soon, Colonel. They can’t sit about on the marsh for ever pretending to play at soldiers.”

  “No,” said Every. He spoke with the conviction of a man who could read the future. “They’ve got a plan and a timetable and they’ll stick to it, to the day and the hour. They’ll come all right. And unless something unforeseen occurs—” he placed one finger of his crippled hand on the wood of Michaelson’s desk—“this time, pray God, we’ll be waiting for them.”

  When Anthony came into the clubroom he could hear Abel Drummer, who was dominating the conver
sation at the bar.

  “A most interesting man,” he said.

  “Who’s interesting?” asked Nabbs, inserting himself into the group.

  “I don’t see why I should be expected to repeat everything I say. However, as it happens, I was discussing a friend of Arthur Drayling, who I’ve now been privileged to meet.”

  “The goldfish man.”

  “Mr. Patel is an expert on other things than goldfish.”

  “Foreigner, I take it.”

  “Mr. Patel is from Pakistan, but he speaks excellent English. Better than many of your boys.”

  “All right,” said Locke. “Don’t start getting at the poor old schoolmaster. What does Mr. Patel know about that makes him so remarkable?”

  “He’s an ophiologist.”

  “Come again?”

  “Which means, as you should know, that he has made a study of snakes. He is obtaining two or three different species for me to sell.”

  This really did create a sensation.

  “Cobras?” said Mr. Biffen.

  “Who are you planning to murder?” said Seligman.

  “The snake,” said Drummer, “is much maligned and misunderstood.”

  “Tell that to Adam and Eve.”

  “If you were cognisant of the elementary facts of natural history,” said Drummer overriding all interruptions, “you would know that only the Viperidae are poisonous. And of the Colubridae, which comprise more than three-quarters of all snakes, the majority are non-poisonous.”

  “Snakes can hypnotise you,” said Nabbs.

  “Only if you’re a bird,” said Seligman.

  Anthony missed the remainder of this fascinating discussion. He had already headed for the telephone kiosk.

  Having introduced himself, he said, “The man I told you about last time, the one who’s got so friendly with Drayling, has now latched on to Drummer. You know about him?”

  “Yes. We know the names of everyone involved. Please continue.”

  “Well he seems to be passing himself off as a Pakistani, who calls himself Patel, though I thought that was actually an Indian more than a Pakistani name. However, his new line is snakes. He’s going to supply Drummer with some for his shop. Harmless ones, of course.”

  He repeated what he could remember of the conversation at the club, but got badly bogged down with the Viperidae and Colubridae. The man at the other end listened patiently and then said, exactly as he had before, “Thank you, Mr. Leone. I will pass your message on to the Superintendent. He will be very grateful.”

  Didn’t seem very interested, thought Anthony and wondered if what he was doing was worthwhile. He did not, of course, know that the whole conversation was taped and that a transcript of the tape went to three different authorities.

  “What we done,” said Len Lofthouse, “was OK. But me, I don’t reckon it was enough.”

  “It was OK,” agreed Andy Connors. “But it didn’t settle the bill. People are still talking about those shiners of yours, Ted, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” said Ted shortly. Like all generals he disliked talk of past defeats.

  “Of course, when we spread it round that five of them set on you it got you a lot of sympathy—”

  But the general feeling was clear. What was wanted was not sympathy, but action. Decisive and dramatic action. Action that would wipe the slate clean for once and all.

  Len said, “Why don’t we just get after them? Five to five this time. Not five to one. Salim may be a useful scrapper, but the other four are daisies.”

  He was the biggest and strongest of all the boys and was hot for a fight.

  “Hold it a moment,” said Andy. “I don’t say I’m not keen on a rumble, but if we do anything in public old Norrie will be down on us like a ton of bricks. Ted in particular.”

  “Simple,” said Len. “We don’t do it in public. All we got to do is find out where they’ve holed up and pay ’em a visit one evening. We can find that out, surely.”

  “We don’t have to find out. We know,” said Ted.

  “How come?”

  “Tell them, Boy.”

  Robin said, “It wasn’t so difficult. I hung round the street outside the garage and followed them. They’re using an old stable, up that lane beyond the hockey ground. Next night I went again, when they weren’t there, and got right in. It’s quite a place. Mostly brick and slate. It wouldn’t be easy to break up, or burn. Not unless you used a lot of petrol and even then it mightn’t go. It’s damp, see. And a lot of damp stuff round it.”

  “The only way, I suppose,” said Andy, “would be to blow it up.”

  He stopped, as though frightened to say more. He could see that the others were fired by the idea. Decisive, dramatic, violent. No question about that.

  Then Norman Younger spoke for the first time. He had a piece of information to pass on and he had been playing with it, much as he played with a football, tapping it from foot to foot, working out, in split seconds, whether the moment had come to pass it or whether it would be better to keep it to himself a little longer, weighing advantage against danger.

  He said, “I was having a word with Liz Frazer last night.”

  “Sure it was only a word?” said Len. Norman, the celebrity, had a stable of willing girlfriends.

  “What she said was, that she’d been talking to Marlene Davies and Marlene had told her something in confidence, but she seemed quite happy to pass it on to me.”

  “Quickest way of spreading news,” said Robin, “is to tell it to a girl in strict confidence.”

  “Go on, Norm,” said Ted.

  “It was something Shah Kahn had told her.”

  “Also in confidence.”

  “I expect so. Anyway Shah said that Tim Sunley – that’s her particular boyfriend – was on the sapper guard at the Arsenal and had promised to get hold of some explosive for them from one of the old bunkers out on the river bank. He said he could nick the key when it was his turn for sentry and put it back afterwards. Easy, he said.”

  There was a moment of silence. Norman knew that, by speaking, he had settled the matter as decisively as when he lured the goalkeeper out and shot between unguarded posts.

  “If that’s their little idea,” said Ted, “there’s only one thing for it, isn’t there?”

  Three heads nodded eagerly. Only Norman kept silent. He was faithful to the band out of personal friendship with Andy, but being the most successful, was the least keen on trouble.

  “How’d we get the stuff?” said Len.

  “Boy lifts it for us. Plenty of it where he works.”

  Robin looked doubtful. He said, “It’s pretty well looked after.”

  “If Sunley can get it from a locked ammunition shed surely you can get hold of a bit from the company store. What is it, anyway?”

  “What we mostly use is PE 808. That’s open-cast gelignite.”

  “Is it difficult to use?”

  “Not really. I mean, it isn’t dangerous to handle or anything like that. It’s soft sort of stuff, like plasticine. You wedge it into a crack in the rock face, shove in a detonator and push off.”

  “Could you get hold of a detonator?”

  “That wouldn’t be so difficult. They keep them in a cupboard in the basement. I could slip down and get a few of those easy enough.”

  “If you can do that we’re home and dry,” said Len.

  He could already see the stable going up in a glorious technicolour cloud.

  “We’re halfway there,” said Ted. “No more than that. Just think it out. We’re the first people who are going to be blamed. That’s obvious, isn’t it? Then what we’ve got to do is to be somewhere else, where everyone can see us, when the bomb goes up.”

  Norman said, “We have a Supporters’ Club party at the ground on Friday. Beer and bangers. I could get you all in on that. It doesn’t pack up much short of midnight.”

  Ted was thinking this out. He said, “Friday would be ideal. It’s a sort of wog holy day and
they wouldn’t be likely to be there in the evening. If they were, we’d have to put it off. We’re not out to kill anyone.”

  Emphatic agreement to this.

  “Then all we’ve got to do is go along and fix it around seven o’clock, with a time-fuse to set it off at ten o’clock.”

  “A time-fuse?” said Robin. “We don’t use anything like that. What we do is we wire the detonator to an ordinary car battery and press the tit when we’re ready.”

  “Then we’ll have to make our own time-fuse. All we need’s a clock.”

  “How do you fix it?”

  This produced a further moment of silence. It was clear that everyone had a vague idea – something they’d read in books – but nothing specific.

  “Your father’s a sapper, Andy,” said Robin. “Could you get him to tell you how to do it?”

  “He’d have a fit.”

  “Even if you told him we weren’t going to hurt anyone. Just blow something up.”

  “Even then.”

  It was curious that an idea seemed to be forming in everyone’s mind at the same time. Four heads were turned towards Ted, who nodded as though in answer to a question that had not been asked.

  “Dad would help,” he said. “He’d have done it for Tiger alone. But now he’s so mad—well—he’ll help all right. He was a sapper himself – only Territorial – but I remember him telling me they did a course on time-fuses and things like that—”

  “Mister Lee-own?”

  Anthony, who was on his way to the club, swung round. A woman on the other side of the street was signalling to him and now came across, dodging through the evening traffic of the High Street. He recognised her as someone he had seen before, but he was unable to attach a name to her.

  She said, “I am sorry, reely I am. But I felt I had to have a word with you. You were so kind to little Debbie that time.”

  Now he could place her. She must be Sergeant Montgomery’s wife. Deborah was her five-year-old daughter. He had encountered her, lost, but not altogether unhappy about it, in the British Home Stores some weeks ago, had got her name and address out of her and restored her to her mother.